Better Ambitions Than Astronomy
by dictionarywrites
Summary: Freddie lets his mind wander when he has a spare moment in the office: Freddie thinks, particularly, of Hector Madden and Bel Rowley with their clothes off, and paying attention to him.


He's not a homosexual.

Of the things that might be listed in regards to Freddie Lyon's qualities, "homosexuality" is not one of them, and moreover, homosexual would be both incorrect and insufficient in defining his bed practices. Freddie does not, after all, sleep with men, nor seek them out, nor has he ever tried to do so – and, moreover, he has a distinct and complete attraction to women, wherever they may be found.

But while he does not actively sleep with men, nor seek them out, and while he has never tried to do so, he has thought about it.

It can be said that Freddie Lyon extensively considers numerous things, and buggery could easily be cast aside as a single thimble among the number, but the way Freddie considers the act is far more personal than the way he considers others.

Bel and Hector are a prime example.

Bel Rowley is the most beautiful woman Freddie has ever come to know, charming, witty, sharp, with perfectly tremendous legs and a sort of easy affection where Freddie is concerned; a woman who will no doubt forever be out of his reach, as she quietly pushes any sexual or romantic inclinations aside if they come from his direction.

Hector Madden is one of the most beautiful men Freddie has ever come to know; charming, witty, sharp, and though his legs aren't especially enchanting, his shoulders are broad, his jaw is strong, and he has very, very distracting hands. Strong hands, strong, clever hands that Freddie has glimpsed set about Bel's hips, on Bel's thighs.

So, yes, Freddie is not a homosexual, but he rather would like to put himself between those two particular human beings.

He leans back in his desk, his legs crossing over each other and his eyes dropping closed.

Hector has his shirt off, and his braces are loose around his hips, his trousers low slung and baring hair that starts at his chest, thick and dark and trailing down, down lower to his belly before it trails under the fabric of his trousers: glorious. Freddie wonders what it might feel like, that bloodyhair under his hand.

Freddie trails his hand down over Hector's chest, and Hector is taller than him but that's good, in fact; Freddie, as Bel has said a dozen times, is a narcissist, an egotist, and at this moment Freddie is most certainly a hedonist. Hector dips his head, presses his mouth hard against Freddie's and clutches at the back of his head, grasps so tightly at Freddie's curls that he lets out a choked little noise against the larger man's mouth, and God,God-

Freddie doesn't actually like Hector that much. There's not a big group of people Freddie does especially like, in truth, but there is a tremendousgroup that Freddie is interested in fucking.

Hector would say that word, he imagines; Freddie doesn't curse all that much, like the rest of them – getting used to cursing when one ad-libs in front of the nation isn't the best sort of idea. But no, Hector wields his tongue as the sharply-edged sword that it is, and Freddie suspects he could well be capable of using it with precision.

"I'm going to fuck you, Freddie." Hector purrs in his ear, voice low, deep, intimately appealing. Freddie is naked and Hector pulls him forwards, pulls him forwards so that Freddie's body is pressed against his own, and Hector is warm and hairy and still wearing his trousers: the inequalitydelights him. "I'm going to put my cock in your arse. Do you think it'll fit?"

And then Hector grabs Freddie's hand, his right hand, grasps it tight and presses it against his own crotch so that he can feel the bulge there through the fabric, and Freddie lets out a gasp when he realizes that it's not at all small – Hector, he imagines, is a man who is terribly well endowed.

Hector grasps his shoulder and pushes Freddie hard into the ground, so that Freddie's naked knees hit hard upon the too-cool floor, and he stares with his eyes wide as Hector looks down at him with a grim delight on his face, just as he unbuttons his trousers and shucks them down, no underwear in sight. Hector's cock, thick around the middle and seven inches long, faces Freddie, Freddie who lets out such an eager little mewl that Hector laughs at him.

Good God, Hector would no doubt laugh at him.

"Well, get on with it, then." Hector says, with a raise of one perfect eyebrow, and Freddie is ready to snap at him, snap and say no, no, because that's degrading and disgusting and Freddie is definitely not a homose-

But Hector grabs his hair again and pushes his head forwards, pushes Freddie's face so that he's nuzzling Hector's cock, and Freddie lets out such a ragged moan that Hector Madden laughs at him again. So he licks, licks a stripe up the length of Hector's cock – how would it taste? Salty? Bitter?

That's how Freddie tastes, he thinks with a stab of eroticised guilt, on the evenings that he tastes his own spend out of pure curiosity.

"Good God, what are you two doing?" Freddie's blood runs cold at that familiar voice, at the sound of heels click-clacking on the floor and the sound of a door being shut again – because they're at the office, of course they're at the office: Freddie's life revolves around the office. "Freddie!" Bel says, and Freddie looks up at her, with his eyes wide and his cheeks red, and he is shocked when he sees that she's grinning at him.

"Oh, James." She purrs, and her left hand goes to the first button of her blouse, loosening it. He watches with his mouth open, his tongue beginning to dry in the air, as she continues to unbutton the garment, baring her chest and her brassiere to the air, to Freddie's sight. He's seen her in her bra before, of course – they've seen each other naked time and time enough, but not like this, not sexually. "What have you gotten yourself into now?"

"Nothing, Moneypenny." He says, and then he tries to say, "Absolutely nothing, Moneypenny.", but Hector cuts him off, pulls him up off the ground by his hair and it hurts, it hurts, that tremendous pain and pull on his scalp, and Freddie wishes more women would do that to him, wishes more of them would roughly pull him back and forth by his hair.

"If you're Bond, and she's Moneypenny," Hector says quietly, and he holds Freddie up a little higher than he is tall, so that he's awkwardly on his tip-toes and trying not to cry out as Hector holds their faces together, so close that he can feel Hector's brandy-tainted breath on his lips and Hector's nose again his own. "Does that make me the villain?"

And Freddie can't reply, Freddie can't even respond, because Hector puts a hand between his legs, utterly ignores Freddie's cock and presses a wet finger into his arsehole. It would have to be wet, of course – the few times Freddie had tried that, putting a finger up there, dry had been painful, but a little lotion to ease the way could do a man the world of good.

As could a finger in the anus in general, honestly, because one had to admit the sensations were terribly evocative.

Freddie cries out, cries out loudly, wriggles on Hector's fingers as he presses the second in, and then the third, keeping him suspended so he can't pull away.

And then there are two smaller hands on his hips, and then there's a mouth on his back, a mouth that sticks somewhat to the skin for the sake of gloss and lipstick, and Freddie is a lamb lost between perfect, perfect wolves.

Hector lets him go and turns him sharply around, pushes him forwards and over the table to the side of the room; papers and pencils and photographs and film all tumble to the ground, and Freddie's cock is pressed against the wood of the table, and it's uncomfortable and it hurts, but he can't think about that because Hector is lining his own cock up and fucking Freddie full.

God, he wants to feel it. Frederick Lyon wants to be buggered, wants to feel a thick English cock stretch him full, and it'd be better than fingers, and it'd be hot, hot and pulsing and so deep inside him he wouldn't know what to do with it.

Bel steps forwards and in front of the table, and she leans over it as Hector gives a sharp thrust, making Freddie cry out. Bel's tits are out, Bel's tits, Bel's wonderful breasts with Bel's wonderful nipples, and she leans forwards, and he waits, because he doesn't think he can conjure up the voice to ask if it's alright, and somehow asking permission seems appropriate.

"Use your tongue, Freddie." Bel says, and the noise he lets out is ragged as he tips himself forwards, presses his arse back against Hector's cock as his tongue seeks out the pink tip of Bel's left nipple-

"Freddie." He opens his eyes. Lix is looking down at him with an amused expression, her pencil pressed against her lower lip – Lix is an attractive woman, too, attractive with strong, Amazonian thighs, wandering fingers, a sharp tongue. And tremendously good in bed, to boot.

"Are you having a nap on the job?"

"Astronauts do it." Freddie says, and he wills his erection down where it's hidden under his folded legs and the stiff fabric of his suit trousers. Subtly, he adjusts his jacket to ensure it's quite hidden.

"Have you got the copy on the recent House of Commons from yesterday?"

"Yes." Freddie says, and he leans forwards, rifling through his things. "Yep, yeah, let me just- here." He hands over the pieces of paper, and she leans in: for a second, he has a bizarre and striking worry that Lix can read his mind, that she's going to say exactly what he was just thinking about and she's going to laugh at him, judge him, take the-

"You're not an astronaut, Freddie." She pats his cheek condescendingly, and he beams at her. The anxiety floods out of him as easy as anything as she pulls back with a little chuckle: oh, he does love her.

"No, Lix. I'm so much more." She laughs, and he does too.

He does his best not to stare as Bel and Hector walk past together, and does his ultimate not to let his thoughts stray back to being naked and delighted between the two of them.


End file.
